Pirouettes: A Short Story

There is a moment before you do a pirouette when everything is still and perfect. You stand in fourth position with your muscles aligned, your weight centered, your arm ready to snap forward. Forces reverse and you pause before you let go. I haven't danced in twelve years, but I will never forget that moment.

I come to the park sometimes to watch the dancers across the street. They enter the studio with serious faces and bags of worn shoes. I was a ballerina once. When I was six my mom held my hand and gently led me to a room full of slippers and thin, fragile dancers - girls with tight buns and turnout that wore their blisters like a badge. Tendu, plie, jete - the new vocabulary became my language. A sweet perfumed teacher with pink-heeled shoes and a flowing black skirt clapped rhythms and adjusted my arms to the proper position. The world captivated me and became my life.

When I see them through the large glass window, waiting their turn in line, I am tempted to hold my own shoulders back and lift my chin. The posture never leaves your bones. The memory of ballet stays in your muscles and permeates your soul. If I concentrate, I can almost feel my body spin.

You practice for years to get the posture right. And when you do, you become stronger and more adept. And then you dance. You dance and you dream of a moment when strangers applaud and throw flowers at your feet. You dream of doing a curtsy in a fancy tutu and accepting love with the roses. That was my dream.

If I could have one moment back, it would not be that perfect pirouette on stage. No, all the applause in the world can't compare to the first time in the studio when you get lost in the movement. The music starts and it's your turn to dance. Your body reaches, glides, turns, leaps. Every fiber of your being concentrates while the world disappears and you become the dance. You feel alive. That is the moment I would go back to.

Life can change in a moment too. A silver truck can come out of nowhere, a sudden blur that makes your head spin. Time stands still and in that moment you know nothing will ever be the same. Forces reverse and you pause before you let go. Life spins out of control, your world turns, and twelve years later, sitting in a wheelchair, you watch ballerinas and remember the pirouettes.